


Ascent

by SirKai



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood, Gore, Guns, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirKai/pseuds/SirKai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medic and Heavy are trapped deep within the enemy base, but the doctor alone must fight for both of them.</p><p>Appreciation to Magellan and FiveTail for aiding with the beta process!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ascent

"Doktor, please-"

The Russian reached out one blood stained hand. Medic shook his head as he finished loading the last of the shells into the stockless shotgun. He mentally noted the pistol tucked inside his inner coat pocket, fed with a half-empty magazine.

"Nein, you need to keep zhe pressure on your vound," the doctor instructed sternly, still focusing on the weapon in his gloved hands. He lifted his head to stare his lover in the eyes. "Please, Heavy."

Heavy slowly retracted his hand. "Da," he agreed, returning the bloodied hand to the reddened bandages constricting his stomach.

"Ve need to keep moving," Medic said, holding the shotgun at chest level. He felt his heart pound. The German was well trained, but not accustomed to using firearms in the field. "Keep behind me, Heavy," Medic ordered, motioning the larger man with his hand. The doctor replaced the hand to the underside of the gun and pressed himself against the corner of the hallway. He carefully inched his head around the corner, revealing as little of himself as possible. The succeeding hallway was empty.

"Clear."

Medic led Heavy through a seemingly endless series of brick hallways, all sloppily painted blue and poorly lit, with the light fixtures far in between. The labyrinth-like design of the enemy base only stacked more anxiety on the doctor's mind.

need to get out of here

dammit can't treat him without supplies

can't use a gun like he can

god the bleeding won't stop

The hallways emptied the two into what the German recognized as a massive foyer; metallic staircases hugged the walls to either side of them, spiraling upwards far too many floors for Medic to bother counting. But there were no doors. He heard the cacophonous breathing of the injured Russian tailing him, and cursed under his breath.

"Doktor, please," Heavy said, in between deep breaths. Medic turned to see the man's posture slouching, his arms looking weightier than ever. "I only slow you. Just go."

"No, no no no," Medic pleaded, smiling nervously. He rushed to the Russian and placed an affectionate hand against his large neck. "Zhis is nozzhing, Heavy." The doctor feigned a grin across his face, shifting his torso to eye the tall staircases behind him. "Ve can do zhis, ja? Come on." Medic dragged his hand from Heavy's neck and began tugging on his shirt. "Come on. Bitte."

The Russian reluctantly followed with a slow nod. "...da, Doktor."

The couple climbed the grated steel steps circulating around the massive room like a lighthouse. The doctor wasn't keeping track of the dozens of flat landings they had passed, always filtering into more branching hallways with inconsistent paint jobs and poor lighting. Medic sensed that every step his partner climbed took longer than the one before, and that his breathing had lengthened into exhausted, desperate gasps. The blood from his stomach now soaked his cradling arm, and had drifted past his hips, staining the Russian's dark trousers. Medic rested an arm on his shoulder, ushering him forward.

"Bitte, Heavy, ve can do zis." The doctor slowly guided to the next landing. Heavy squinted his eyes with every step.

"Doktor..." the Russian pleaded, collapsing at the height of the stairs. Medic instinctively laid the shotgun down on the top step. He pressed one hand onto Heavy's massive shoulder, and lightly held his face. The doctor had never seen his lover so weak before; his gaping, struggling mouth, his squinting eyes, his feverishly sweating forehead. "I..." Heavy bit down, barring his teeth painfully. "I cannot... I cannot go."

Medic could no longer dispute it. He was too disciplined to deny it any longer.

"Please... go," Heavy begged.

"That makes for a right touching story, don't it?"

Medic spun on the spot, snatching up the shotgun as he rose to his feet and training it in the direction of the voice. God, that voice. That growling, threatening voice.

"Oohhh, careful mate, I wouldn't try that."

It was him; that filthy, gangly Australian, slowly pacing from the depths of one of the many slapdash blue hallways. His right hand was pulled just past his neck. Pinched in between his fingers was a slim, stone-headed wooden arrow aimed directly in between the German's eyes.

"Oi! Truckie!" the Sniper called out. Medic felt the vibrations of footsteps starting on the stairs, nearing him from behind. He remained still, keeping the gun fixated on the bow-wielding enemy. He barely dared to breathe.

"I reckon you two love birds got yerselves into some trouble," the man from behind said with a snicker. Every word of his was dressed in that disgusting American accent.

"Looks like the spook was roight," Sniper said, coming to a stop in the middle of the grated landing, several feet from Medic and Heavy. The footsteps from behind slowed until the doctor could see the American's open hand reaching out from the corner of his eye.

"Come on now, Doc," the enemy Engineer teased. Cool metal began prodding at the German's back. "Ain't no need to be like that. Jus' hand over the gun."

The barrel of the Engineer's handgun dug aggressively into Medic's spine. The doctor's heart felt as if it was racing throughout his entire torso. His eyes remained fixed to the tip of the Sniper's arrowhead. Medic let out one large, decisive breath.

"Ja..." The doctor heard Heavy's breathing pick up in speed.

"Dokt-"

"Sshhh, Heavy," Medic interrupted. He slowly eased his index finger out of the shotgun's trigger guard and raised his twitching hand above his head. The doctor spoke something soothing to his lover in German. He wasn't sure he could say it quite right in English. The American laughed heartily at the brief statement.

"I'd have figured you boys woulda learned the battlefield ain't no place fer this," Engineer said. The Texan reached farther towards Medic's left hand, which still tightly held the barrel of the shotgun. The pain from his back vacated as the Engineer lowered his pistol, giving himself leverage. "Alright now, almost there," Engineer said, stretching his bare fingers for the shotgun.

It was one fluid motion the German had practiced hundreds of times. The Texan's fingernails lightly scraped the metal of the gun.

"Now just-"

Medic ducked his head forward, releasing the shotgun from his hand. He thrust his left elbow backwards. The Engineer's goggles bent and snapped from the impact of his arm. Warm liquid bled through the doctor’s coat, and onto his skin.

"Truckie!"

The heavy shotgun clattered against the metallic steps. The ringing shook Medic’s bones. Reaching his arm back, the doctor seized the Texan's gloved wrist. The handgun shook from his grasp. In a single burst of adrenaline, Medic heaved the Engineer's arm forward, throwing the short man over his shoulder.

"Grraaahhh!"

Medic could recognize every torn tendon and split muscle as the American tumbled in the air headfirst in front of him, blocking the Sniper's line of sight. The doctor released Engineer's arm and shoved his hand inside his own coat in between the buttons.

The Texan's neck and shoulders hit the steps.

Medic and Sniper were in plain firing view of each other. Arms outstretched, the doctor gripped his unkempt silver pistol with both hands. Three thunderous gunshots rang out. The handgun jumped violently in Medic's gloved hands with each squeeze of the trigger. First shot: shattering the Australians wooden weapon and mangling his hand. Second shot: clear hit to the center of the stomach. Third shot: the bullet burying just below his neck, bursting Sniper's collar bone into a cloud of blood and sinew. The archer fell backwards onto the metal floor. The splintered pieces of his bow fell through the gaps in the grating. Medic lowered the pistol slowly, savoring his victory, before casually firing a fourth shot at his feet into the skull of the stirring Engineer.

"Doktor is fine without me," Heavy said quietly, forcing a slight smile across his disheveled face. Medic quickly holstered the pistol back into his coat, and crouched next to the large Russian.

"Heavy..."  
"I can't go," Heavy said.

Medic hesitated, just lightly feeling the warmth of his partner's face through his glove. "I know," the German finally admitted. "Es tut mir leid bitte verzeih mir."

Heavy chuckled lightly, and opened his mouth as if to say something. He paused, mouth slightly agape, staring into Medic's chest. "Doktor, your coat..."

Glancing down at himself, the German's eyes met a length of silver exuding from a growing splash of red in his chest. "Vhat..." Medic muttered, his hand carefully hovering around the handle of the knife. He felt the cushioned presence of something in front of his chest, but there was nothing there.

"Allow me to lighten the load, Doctor."

A reeling arm materialized from the air itself; a long blue, pin striped sleeve and impeccably well-fitted black leather gloves, all coming into view before the tall, treacherous Frenchman standing on the top step. He was smiling venomously with that ever-present cigarette. The Spy raised his large white-and-black revolver in his other hand. Medic's mind had yet to comprehend the series of events, or their meaning, until his lover's neck exploded in a stream of blood alongside a deafening blast. The Russian sat up for another full moment, as if balanced by his body weight alone, before toppling limply onto the stairs.

Eyes widened, ears ringing, his mind performing somersaults in his skull. Instinct seized control of Medic's limbs as the smoking revolver slowly rotated towards him. The German's actions were miles ahead of his awareness. Lunging over the corpse of the Engineer at the disgusting snake. Viciously hooking his jaw, knocking the smoking cigarette away from his face. Gripping his arm and fiercely elbowing the Frenchman's temple. Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, the pained grunts of the enemy Spy, and blinding rage that encompassed him, the doctor might have heard the dropped revolver smacking the metal floor.

Spy feebly countered with a right-hand jab at the doctor's forehead. Cleanly sidestepping the attack, Medic snatched the enemy's wrist. Tensing his entire body, Medic wrapped his fingers around the handle of the butterfly knife embedded in his chest. A plume of blood erupted from the wound as he ripped the blade out in a single quick motion. His newly armed hand widely stroked the air, leaving a trail of red like a brushed canvas. The doctor spun around and released Spy's hand. He carried the wide swing full-circle and delivered the knife through the back of the Frenchman's hand. The blade emerged, bloodier, from the palm of his ruined leather glove. The Spy shrieked frantically.

Medic yanked the handle of the knife outward, stretching his opponent's arm straight as he reeled his leg back. Striking his leg upward, the doctor's knee collided directly with the Frenchman's elbow. Spy squinted his tear-stricken eyes and barred his teeth as his arm cracked backwards. The doctor listened to every joyous splinter, every rapturous fracture of the man's bones.

"Pl... please..."

Medic may have heard the words in a different lifetime.

Tightly grappling each end of the broken arm, Medic planted his legs and howled. The fabric of Spy's sleeves tore, his weakened flesh split, the fragmented bones separated, and in moments, the Frenchman was stumbling backwards, clutching at his own mutilated, bleeding stump. He glared in awe as the doctor before him stood hunched over, breathing sadistically like a crazed, starving predator. Blood liberally dressed his face and glasses, in addition to his coat. Constrained in Medic's hand was the other half of Spy’s arm, knife still piercing the hand.

The doctor pinched the handle of the knife with two fingers, and let the arm slowly slide from the blade, landing with a dull thud on the floor. He marched towards the stunned, defenseless Spy, and raised the butterfly knife over his head. A single harsh thrust from the doctor gouged the blade into his neck. Medic had forgotten tactics and anatomy. He had forgotten training and protocol.  
Medic forcibly held the knife into the Frenchman's neck, and gripped his blood stained tie with the other hand to keep him on his feet. Their faces were only inches from each other. Medic had never been audience to something so satisfying. Feeling the warmth from the blood running over his gloves, and eventually onto his flesh. Watching the Spy's futile attempts to make noise from his useless, villainous mouth. Seeing the life evaporate from the man's eyes as they stared at each other. The doctor almost smiled.

The Spy eventually fell to the floor, the knife's blade still completely concealed in his throat. Standing there, gazing over the body, Medic's mind gradually reprocessed the physical world; the smells, the sights, the noises. Himself. He stepped back, clutching his bleeding chest with a wheezing breath, and his eyes finally left the dead Spy. He was finished with the filth; there was nothing the doctor could do to make him suffer anymore.

Medic stumbled back to his collapsed lover, and sat down next to the still body. He constantly averted his eyes from the gaping, fleshy hole in his neck. He cradled the man's head into his injured chest.  
The doctor would swear he could still feel his partner's slow breaths against his neck.


End file.
